


When Will This End?

by waydurie



Series: Araneae Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Chuck isn't really a Chuck, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Mice, Mrs Hudson is a BAMF, Mycroft and Greg are also wimps, Sherlock and John are wimps, So is Anthea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 11:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4389431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waydurie/pseuds/waydurie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First it was Fredward haunting the flat of 221B with his spidery evil powers, then Chuck, the mouse joined the party. What will happen when Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Greg fail to catch the tiny mouse and have to call Anthea and Mrs Hudson to save the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Will This End?

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know it's been ages since I've last updates but...nah I'm not even gonna make up an excuse cause I've just been plain lazy and procrastinate-y these past couple of months. And I also wanted this chapter to be the best I could make it, so I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, be warned, there is a spot of cursing and lots of laughs!

“I’m here you morons. Now, show me this Fredward fellow before I finally go crazy and call a long over due drugs bust or something. Oh and I’ll personally make sure that the one and only, Anderson gets to handle all of your current experiments that may be laying around the flat, Sherlock.” Taking no time to pause (there was never time for a break with Fredward around) Greg stormed through the living room and stood directly in front of the three men atop of the tortured table.

“Oh Greg, I wish that were our only problem at the moment now. Life is terrible, life is cruel. There is no mercy for those that only do good for others.” Complained Sherlock melodramatically, but again, when did he not?

“Sherlock, cut the crap and tell me where this Fredward is so I can go home and back into my bed.” Greg ran a tired hand through his silvered hair. “You know that place where actual human beings go to at the end of the day to sleep.” Greg snapped, Detective Inspector Lestrade was taking no shit from anyone from the second his phone rang and the caller ID read John’s name. But admittedly, even with the bags under his eyes, and the fact that murderers didn’t magically decided to take days off, committed as they were. All was forgiven between Greg and the totally courageous occupants of a two foot coffee table.

“Relax Greg, you know how much I like to call Sherlock out on his shit but he’s sort of right. Just ask Mycroft...that is if he can speak anytime soon.” Greg did in fact look at Mycroft and drank in the truth about the government official who had turned paler than a sheet.

“What part of ‘I don’t fucking care why I’m here anymore, just get to the point’ don’t you get?” Greg groaned pitifully. However, it took Greg less than two seconds before realization dawned on him and he shook his head in shame. “Apologies, as I said, late day at the office today and it doesn't look like it’s going to get any better tomorrow.”

Lestrade took in a deep breath and clapped his hands together, he was getting into the DI mentality, or so they (especially Greg himself) would like to believe.

“So let’s actually get things started and kill that beast of a spider. I mean, how hard can it be anyways?” Between Sherlock muttering “Harder than you think…” and later a “Just because you call yourself Detective inspector of a group of imbeciles...” under his breath.

And John wondering whether he should be punching Greg for indirectly throwing shade at his manliness or should he be questioning his own psyche...along with all that psychobabble and _blahblahblah_ that went along with it.

Mycroft had teetered himself to the edge of the coffee table, umbrella included, (he still had that stupid thing?) to assure that under no circumstances a word he could possibly say would go unheard.

Mycroft laid a hand on Greg’s shoulder in what could be considered a condescending manner...Okay, maybe it was the most condescending thing Greg had ever experienced, maybe even seen in his life but Mycroft meant well. He really did. Especially as his surreptitious partner in crime and in the bedroom but those were detail.

“As I believe you might be aware, our archenemy, Fredward the spider is loose inside this very flat. More specifically in the bathroom.” Mycroft shivered minutely at the thought of even having to see Fredward ever again. “And it is your job to help us with that...However, I should warn you we have a greater, bigger...and furrier threat amongst us.”

“You mean I’m not just here for Fredward? Fucking hell, I’m so gonna regret this in --” Greg looked at his watch with a grave face. “five hours and twenty three minutes, but let’s get this Fredward and his furry friend out of your way.”

“Now you’re speaking our language Greg! Get into the bathroom and kill that spider! Have no mercy, spare no lives, let the cruelty of nature get it’s just desserts.” Sherlock, and his panicked but hopeful look, confronting Greg to get a move on.

Greg placatingly raised his hands by his head and automatically walked towards the bathroom, “Here’s me going to the bathroom to finish whatever you weaklings were too scared finish. Actually, too scared to even start.”

**“WAIT!”** yelled Sherlock and John in unison, “Come back!” Sherlock squawked.

Greg stomped --walked back into the main living room area and glared at Sherlock. “Yes, Sherlock. And this is my, ‘careful, you’re already on thin ice’ voice if you were wondering.”

“I forgot --I mean, John forgot to tell you about Chuck.” Sherlock looked off to the side and practically whistled.

And cue Greg and his litany of groan and moans, not only was it Fredward but now he had a little friend. “Who and where is this Chuck you speak of if Fredward has already taken up the bathroom?”

John leaped seven feet off of the table when he heard (although very much imaginary) the squeaks of hell on Earth itself. Chuck. That was Chuck messing with their heads, playing games, and twisting the realms of reality. The plonker.

Sherlock and John --was that Mycroft they heard as well-- whispered, “Look behind you...That is, if you’re brave enough.”

Greg looked directly behind himself and saw nothing, but of course he wasn’t looking where he was supposed to be looking. The floor. And Chuck was scuttling faster into the kitchen than any vehicle going at Mach 5.

“Is that...That’s a...why what a cute rat you guys have in your apartment as well.” Greg audibly gulped. “And I thought Fredward would be the end of things, but I mean, now it’s truly a proper party with a nice, dirty, quite possibly plagued rat.”

Chuck wasn’t exactly one of their friends. She (yes, Chuck was a girl as John would soon go on and discover after a mouse check up) was probably one of the only things that ranked lower than Fredward and his spidery self.

“Stop right there Greg.” dear god, was it already time for an already annoyed Sherlock entering diva mode? Because that was never a good thing for anyone… “First, Chuck is not a rat, just look at it’s tail size and fur color. Chuck is undeniably smaller than any rat even of the store grade pet variety is. Therefore, we have found our own Disney World entertainment at 221B because this is a mouse.”

“Rat, mouse, spider, bird, ferret. They’re all the same to me Sherlock, seriously, all the same. They’re all unnaturally annoying and incredibly impossible to get rid of.” Greg , again, bless his soul, pretended to act above the whole situation. But it was the concept of staying still when was a loose ra --apologies, mouse merrily trotting between their feets. “But um... just tell me I don’t have to touch anything with my hands.”

“Of course you don’t Greg,” Sherlock gestured his hand flippantly at the detective inspector, “that is unless you want me to tell the Yard how you turned from a self proclaimed macho man to a sissy in less than two minutes.”

Greg squinted his eyes and spared a death glare not only to Sherlock but to John who was giggling wildly by his partner’s side, not even making the poorest attempt to cover his mouth to muffle the laughs.

“You wouldn’t dare Sherlock. I swear to god, you might think I’m joking half of the time, but when I say your current case could be your last, I’m not fucking joking. So think again, you berks.”

Mycroft ever the gentleman stepped in and tried to assuade the situation at least a smidge, “Gregory dear, Sherlock will help you in whatever way possible, I’ll see to that myself, you have my word. All you have to do is finish your part and you can be on your way back home and into your bed.” And the knowing gaze Gregory and Mycroft shared spoke that perhaps they might be sharing a car on the way back.

Greg raised his eyebrows, crossed his arms and sighed --once again-- in defeat (and not trying to think about the look Mycroft gave him). “Fine but I’ve already wasted a decent ten minutes I could’ve been chasing Chuck around or tracking Fredward. Whichever creature you want to take out first, your pick.”

Through a series of eyebrow wiggles and eye squints, Sherlock and John, Mycroft was even included in the last decision, “Take out Chuck first...I fear the mouse is more of a concern since it’s mobile. Fredward has been considerably sedentary since Sherlock first noticed him.”

Greg shifted on his feet uneasily, “But if Fredward is so easy to take care of, why not take care of him first then?”

“Do you see Fredward running around the flat,” right on cue, a small squeak came from the kitchen, Chuck zooming right on past Greg’s legs --correction, right in between Greg’s legs. Lo and behold, the scream of all screams came out of Greg’s mouth, as did one from Sherlock and John’s. Mycroft was screaming and howling internally like the posh gentleman he was.

“Point taken.” The detective inspector nodded , now speaking in a high whimper. “But I think I’ll still pop into the bathroom for a mo,’ make sure Fredward is staying put. Safety precaution, and all that.”

Without protest from either side, Greg ducked into the loo and John feared the worst, “Greg, are you alright? Fredward was particularly vicious when Mycroft went in earlier. I’m still not fairly certain if he didn’t get a parting gift in the form of a bite compliments from _**The-Spider-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.”**_

__

“Guys...You did say Fredward was near the bathtub, am I right?” Greg sounded...spooked. Why?

“Yes, Graham. Weren’t you listening to anything I said earlier? It’s not that hard, all you have to do is keep your ears open. But then again --” There came John always the intermediary. Because it seemed that Sherlock still had his sass even with Chuck out and about.

“Calm yourself, Sherlock. I only ask because --because there doesn’t seem to be anything around nor near the bathtub. So yeah.” A shiver wracked the Holmes brothers’ body simultaneously whilst John remained somewhat unaffected on the outside but stoically quivered on the inside. “Actually, there’s nothing pertaining, or of the spidery sort in sight…”

Sherlock yelped --correction, that was a clearing of the throat, of course, “Dear god, we’re actually going to die now. Chuck could be anywhere blocking our possible escape route, Fredward is also on the loose. When will this travesty come to an end? Will I have to die to get some peace? I blame you Mycroft, and those will be my last words just in case.” Sherlock looked at Mycroft, then at John, later towards the hallway and towards the general direction of the bathroom, “No, I take that back, my last words are going to be towards John. I love you John H. Watson, and don’t you go forgetting, I leave you my microscope and acid kits if you come out of this alive.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose when Mycroft shook his head at his little brother’s theatrics, “You would’ve been kidding yourself if you thought my last words were going to be to you Mycroft...No offense. Well actually --”

John, quicker than lightning grabbed Sherlock’s hand and silently squeezed his lover with a sturdy grip as a universal _‘shut up.’_

However, Mycroft shrugged, so used to Sherlock’s antics at this day and age “None taken, brother dear. And in the same spirit, my last words will be directed to Gregory.” He picked at the sleeves of his suit before half screaming half speaking with Greg who had yet to leave the bathroom. “Die with dignity or I won’t let the Yard recognize you as one of their own at your funeral.”

“Duly noted Mycroft, thank you for the love on your part. It’s not like I’m already risking my life just to save all of your asses from a teensy, tiny -- ** _LORD MOtherFuCKinG JESUS_** that thing is bigger than my fucking face!”

Greg catapulted himself into the living room and the two and a half people atop the coffee table became a hearty 3 and a half. Actualy 5 considering Mycroft had broken his diet several days ago.

Four men, four full grown men were bouncing, shaking, and practically tipping over the poor creaking coffee table. And there went Chuck again, zooming past the living room without a care in the world. The injustice that Sherlock, John, Mycroft and now Greg had to live through.

Chuck did a few more victory laps around the living room before finally disappearing beneath the couch happily squeaking meanwhile. “Thank god no one from the yard is here to see us, four grown men standing on a table like sissies. They sure would’ve had something to talk about, am I right?” John dryly laughed in short burst.

“People do little else John, focus on the matter at hand.” Sherlock smacked John lightly in the side of his arm giving him a stern but playful stare.

And what happened next would’ve already been out of context in any other situation, but it was even more out of context seeing Greg act sheepish with hell’s demons on the loose.

“So this might not be a good time to mention the pictures I took of you guys right before I went into the bathroom…” Everyone and their pet goldfish stared at Greg with murder written in their eyes, and considering he was the detective inspector, Greg got the message loud and clear. “But, hey, you guys shouldn’t worry cause I’ll be deleting them right after all of this is done. Promise, yeah? Just as long as each and every one of you” now in a louder, emphatic voice “and that includes you Fredward! Keep this whole ‘jumping onto the table’ nonsense quiet.”

“This will be our little secret, therefore it doesn’t leave these walls,” John spoke not only with Greg but with Sherlock and Mycroft. “but let me find out one of you blabbed and you don’t even want to know how quickly I’ll go Captain Watson on your ass.”

No words were needed to show how in agreement the other three men squeezed atop the table were. “Now that that’s been established, Greg would you please get going with some type of plan so we can finally get off of this table.”

Greg gave all of them a dirty stare, one that would make Gramps Lestrade proud his grandson still had his balls, and put one leg off of the table followed by the other. Dirty glare still in place, Greg grabbed a clean plastic cup from Sherlock’s stash (no more dirty glasses full of eyeballs for tea time now, something John was extremely grateful for) and some sheets from John’s newspaper from earlier and marched on into the bathroom.

There were crashes and booms and clangs and **_ka-blooms_** not even two seconds after Greg stepped in. There were high pitched squeals at 2 second intervals with a _“Die, bitch die.” here and a “Yeah, that’s right, run you little bitch, run” there._

“I think it’s going pretty well,” said Mycroft taking the optimistic route. “Greg seems to be pretty in control of the whole situation don’t you think?”

_“You can run, but you can’t hide little fucker!_ ” John was in agreement to Greg’s method as means to an end. Poor Fredward won’t know what hit him.

Chuck came out from under the leather couch and scuttled past the three grown men balanced atop the coffee table. A joint scream of terror erupted yet again, Sherlock making sure to take hold of John as tightly as he could, anywhere he could. Hips, waist, neck, shoulders,  a cheeky squeeze to the groin. In the end, Sherlock grabbed onto the collar of John’s shirt pressing his nose seeking out the scent of Purely John. However, Sherlock was practically choking Johnno matter how comforted he felt. But at least if he passed out from oxygen deprivation he wouldn’t have to face Chuck and Fredward anytime soon, the new Bonnie and Clyde.

“Sherlock for the love of god, take it easy and let go of me.” John wanted to shove Sherlock away, put some sense into that beautiful, and usually (not always) reasonable man. But the added comfort of protecting his boyfriend, John the Protector, traveled the sands of Kahandar and has a bullet wound in his shoulder to show for it. Also, the part about not looking like the scardiest of cats was a plus.

Two piercing grey eyes stared straight into darker blue ones with promised torture (and love, if you looked close enough, but it was mostly murder) written in them. “Man up John. Don’t you love me?”

“And here we go with the emotional guilt tripping. How very expected of you, Sherlock, how mature.”

“I wouldn’t need to use it John if you would support me like a real man and let me know you had my back when I needed you.” Sherlock replied petulantly.

“What the hell are you talking about Sherlock. I once killed a man for you and you know it. So shut up before we distract Greg from getting the job done.” John practically scolded Sherlock.

“Fine”

_“Fine”_

**“Fine”** Sherlock always having to have the last word.

“Oi, lovers! Shut up!” greg, always the passive aggressive (sort of) peacemaker said. “ I think I’ve found Fredward behind the sink. I have the cup at ready so I’m going in, wish me luck.”

A series of ‘good luck’s were exchanged and prayers were telepathically shared before Greg screamed out, “Gotcha you stupid little fucker, you’ve got no where to run, Fredward.”

“Yes, Greg yes! Slay him Greg, show no mercy and finish him once and for all!” John fist pumped the air and Sherlock sighed with happy relief.

“Well done Gregory, I knew I chose you to be my partner for a reason.” The look of pride on Mycroft’s face was astronomical as was the level of repressed hormones (sexual hormones if you catch Mycroft’s drift). Sherlock and John were both thinking the same, Graham and Mycroft needed to get a room --after their vermin problem was taken care of that is.

Out of the bathroom came one boastful Detective Inspector Lestrade holding a plastic cup with a folded sheet of newspaper tucked between the lid and Greg’s hand. “I believe I have what you’re looking for.”

“Yes Greg! Slay!” Sherlock perhaps has been spending too much time on the internet forums if he was starting to pick up the vernacular of the “kiddos” these days.

Greg awkwardly waddled --even after his glorious victory-- around the middle of the living room, “So what should we do with the Fredward filled cup?”

“I think dumping him in that cup of acid would be nice--” John glared at Sherlock, “but since John won’t let that happen, stupid John. Just throw Fredward out the window or something, let him cast a web all over the city or whatever. The second he’s out of this flat, he’s not my problem.”

Greg walked over to the window closest to the couch and opened it just a crack. Key word, just a crack, because Fredward might get some ideas and that won’t do them any good, especially with Chuck out on his stroll.

Greg spilled the cup over the side of the window and with lightning quick reflexes shut the window. Again, take no chances when dealing with with terrorist in hostage situations of such caliber. Greg brought his hands together, a proud, face splitting smile emerged on his face.

“Now that Fredward has been taken care of, let’s see where Chuck has run off to. That little fucker can’t be too hard to find. He’s (Chuck is still physically a girl but, well, they don’t know that yet) been eager to explore the flat since I’ve got here, so get on it John, Greg, and yes Mycroft, I also mean you.” Sherlock wasn’t one for wasting time, he never was.

Mycroft side-eyed Sherlock’s eagerness but still, he stepped off of the table (incredibly, unbelievably tentatively) and sidled up to Greg. “Say the word Gregory and I swear I will try to help...As long as it doesn’t involve any handiwork, actual touching of said rodent Chuck, or moving three feet away from the coffee table.”

Greg chuckled and grabbed Mycroft’s hand in between both of his, “Thanks alright, love. I think I’ll be fine, but really, I’ll need John’s help to collect some things to capture that son of a gun.”

“Oh...Really? Are you sure?” Mycroft said as (dis)passionately as he could manage, Gregory was his one true love so the least he could do was show some affection.

“I’m positive my love, get back on your table with Sherlock and John and I will fend for all of us. How does that sound?” Sherlock harrumphed at the idea of being stuck with Mycroft for any longer and John wasn’t very thrilled to being sent on the suicide mission to find Chuck but c’est la vie.

Mycroft tiptoed onto the table and never once did either Holmes brother get any closer than 10 inches from each other, which was quite the feat considering the table was three feet wide.

But on the flipside, John and Greg were already raiding the fridge for any cheese, or possibly solidified milk products that could possibly attract any members of the rodent species.

Cheese in hand although slightly rotten and injected with hybrid bacteria cultures (thank you Sherlock) John and Greg waltzed into the living room, if they were going to die, at least they were leaving this earth as big shots.

“Okay Greg, you lay down a trail of cheese and I’ll stake out our little friend.” Greg nodded at John, John nodded at Greg and they split. Greg immediately starting to break off small pieces of blue (actually, completely blue) cheese to leave as bait.

When Greg was done with his cheesy duties and John was done securing a mousey perimeter, the two set to work on their not so excellent Chuck calls. How else were they supposed to lure out the devil’s spawn with cheese alone? That would’ve taken all night and Greg basically had a foot out of the door the whole time incase anything went less than ideal he could ditch and have the excuse of “work” in the morning. Who even worked these days anymore was Sherlock’s question, work was for nobodies that prefer to live a conformist life behind a desk with set hours governed by anyone but yourself.

But that’s besides the point, because the mouse busters at the ready and Sherlock and Mycroft as a form of encouragement, what could possibly go wrong?

And the answer to that --is a lot. A hell of a lot can go wrong in a matter of milliseconds…

For example, It was three minutes before the not-so grown men even heard another peep from Chuck from wherever he (still a she) happened to be in the living room. Which means Sherlock’s homemade blue cheese just wasn’t cutting it (how ironic).

And because of that, Sherlock got impatient. (And also annoyed because he spent weeks perfecting that ratio of mold and uncultured bacteria in milk.) And when Sherlock gets impatient, Mycroft not only gets impatient along with him, but neurotic in the poshest of ways which is even more infuriating to watch.

“Have any of you caught the damn mouse yet? It’s been like what? Twenty-seven years already? Just gas up the whole house if you have to. Say the word and I’ll have it taken care of.” And by that Sherlock did mean he had a slightly, more than slightly drowsing gas inside of every fire extinguisher. Like come on, who really needs crucial fire preventing materials when you can have noxious gas at the ready?

Not Sherlock, that’s for sure.

“Calm you panties Sherlock, we’ll get the mouse. But not with your constant bitching, we’re not.” John groaned for what felt like the millionth time that night. Morning? Twenty-four hour period?

Mycroft blanched, Greg cringed. “I’m not sure if you guys are being serious about the panties, but we prefer that remained a mystery.” Greg stepped away from the bickering couple before realizing he needed John if they wanted to catch the lovely Chuckster.

A few uncomfortable throat clearings later waiting to see if Sherlock and John got past their paltry (and sexually tense) spat. They were practically at an impasse until it got truly ridiculous and Mycroft threatened to shove Sherlock off the table and into the savage world that Chucks ran around loose and wild. So when Sherlock looked away, John joined Lestrade to get to mouse hunting once again…

...Good thing they weren’t casting for Ghost (mouse) Busters because John and Greg wouldn’t have gotten past the line reading.

In digression, John now getting back into his half hearted groove to capture Chuckward the III, staring at Greg, a nod here, a nod there. A flutter of blinks here and a grunt there with a shake of a head there, and both silently agreed that maybe (definitely) this was too much for them. And don’t think it was because they had given up, nah, it was because Chuckerina was now dancing (no joke, dancing...or so everyone currently in 221B thought) right next to the leg of the coffee table. And no Sherlock was not squirming and faintly screaming the closer Chuck got to the table.

And they both agreed that maybe blue (again, literally blue) cheese, and sham fire extinguishers wouldn’t do the trick, not this time.

So John looked at Mycroft and it might’ve been the fright of a little four legged vermin that slowed his thought process but eventually Mycroft understood and out came the white number card with nothing but eight neatly printed digits. And soon enough, it would lead to their salvation.

On the first ring, Anthea picked up and either it was her sixth Mycroft sense, her clairvoyant tendencies, or her distaste for wasting time, “Where?” Quick and to the point, “Whatever it is, I’ll be there in fifteen.” There was some rustling on the other side of the phone before Anthea came back on, “And will I need any special equipment sent to the flat for when I arrive.”

John was very tempted to tell Anthea just to bring a whole army of exterminators (you know, better safe than sorry) but perhaps he shouldn’t be such a big baby in front of Anthea. After all, John did try to flirt with her...well, that was before he discovered his undeniable love for Sherlock. (Or when he knew he felt for Sherlock more than a friend, but did he really know the extent of his feelings, how deep they ran? How far he would be willing to go that the very next day he would be killing another man for his lover.)

“Perhaps a nice big box of extra strength gloves, and some mice traps --the sticky ones. Oh, and maybe some chinese take out wouldn't go amiss, Sherlock and I haven’t eaten since lunch time yesterday.”

“Chinese. Same order as always?” Anthea asked as the sound of a car starting rumbled through the speakers.

“Yeah. And make sure you get it from --” And this was why Anthea worked for Mycroft. Because before John even finished speaking, she already knew (or had 99% of an idea) what John was going to say. “Get it from Royal China Club from around the corner of Baker Street. Consider it done. Tell my boss I’ll be there, okay.”

John nodded but then he remembered Anthea couldn’t see him nodding, so he choked out a quick, “Whatever, just hurry.”

Call ended, John looked at Sherlock and Sherlock looked at John and like two magnets being pulled together, the Baker street boys crossed the room in a flash and embraced each other in a tight, unrelenting hug. They’re chests pressed against each other, arms tangled and wrapped around each other’s backs.

Sherlock pressed a kiss onto John’s hair murmuring sweet nothings and mouse related reassurances, probably not only to calm John down but to act as some reassurance for himself as well. Besides the occasional “At around four to seven weeks old, a female mouse will mate and have their young.” Good to know, Sherlock. Nice of you to give your life partner a premature heart attack.

So that was Sherlock and John’s way of coping, whilst Mycroft and Greg --a bit less enthusiastic on PDA, even if it was only in the company of his brother and his partner-- were silently holding each other’s hands and staring deeply into each other’s eyes.

Both couples, in their own ways, were seeking comfort as they saw appropriate. Again, some more shamelessly than others, very well up until the clicking sound of heels came from down the stairs.

God bless the universe that Anthea had finally arrived. In the span of, what, almost eight minutes, Chuck had managed to start chewing on the wires of Sherlock’s latest electricity related experiment.

And Anthea better hurry up those stairs before Chuck cuts off the electricity, because Lord knows what Sherlock has those wires connected to.

Along with Anthea --their Lord and savior-- came the wafting smell of kung pao chicken and fried rice enough for a party of eight. Stomachs all around grumbled with hunger (especially Sherlock’s although he might not have wanted to admit it) Greg even let out a short gasp because the hunger was too great. It was one of those midnight craving days and Chinese would be the best way to curb those cravings.

“Gentlemen, I’m here and with food. The exterminator should be here in the next two minutes.” Anthea popped out from through the door that first Mycroft, later Greg had triumphantly entered with the intention of showing the infiltrating vermin who is boss.

John fist pumped the air upon hearing the second stomping of feet climbing up the seventeen steps up to 221B. First Anthea, now the exterminator. The party was definitely getting started.

Anthea stepped into the kitchen setting the chinese on the table with one hand whilst the other held a clipboard with files that most assuredly had ** _“classified”_ ** stamped all over them. Sherlock tried to sneak a peak over Anthea’s shoulder from where he stood somewhere around the coffee table area because that would probably be the last time any of Mycroft’s plans would make their way into his flat.

And Anthea wouldn’t be Mycroft’s employee if she didn’t operate on her clairvoyant senses at all times, especially around the younger Holmes brother. “Sherlock, don’t even try what I know you’re thinking about doing. Go back at least five paces or you can forget the chinese food and I’ll personally tell the exterminator to leave the rat in your room, somewhere you’ll never find it. Or maybe your bed. I’m feeling dangerous today.” Anthea’s smirk looked even more dangerous than some of Sherlock’s.

Sherlock stared straight into Anthea’s eyes seeing if he could call a bluff, but of course Anthea was as serious as a heart attack. So what else could Sherlock do but give in and take a step back. Damn Anthea always getting one over with that stare of hers.

“Just this once I’ll step back. But only if you hand Chuck directly to me after you catch him (still a her).” Sherlock huffed, steam practically escaping his ears.

“I believe that can be arrange. Now let’s get started, shall we?” Rhetorical question of course as Anthea already had the exterminator canvassing the area for any potential Chuck escape routes.

Anthea truly had everything covered. No surprise there.

So it was easier for the spooked out gang to calm down figuring Chuck would be no more, and soon. The exterminator was busy, John was on his tip toes getting as many deep bowls as needed to dole out nice heaping portions of chinese for the starving hostages that were still very grateful to have finally been rescued. And perhaps, for the first time since John had gotten together ( _together_ together) with Sherlock, had the man ogled (more appropriately stealing) his friends rice all the while John was still trying to ration it out. Again, his job being harder than usual with a gluttonous Sherlock blocking all of John’s attempts at putting rice and kung pao chicken on anything but his plate.

Anthea and the exterminator were off doing mousy business not moments later Sherlock’s cheeks stuffed with spoonfuls of food like the adorable chipmunk he could be when his hunger hit back after his food strikes.

There were the occasional murmurs and the sound of closing doors coming from down the hallway where assumedly the pair of pest wranglers were working to solve their mouse problem. But it wasn’t until the food sated boys were halfway done with their overflowing plates that they heard sound that they themselves have been responsible for making most of the night.

The sound of a genuinely terrified adult male squealing for his life came from just past the kitchen door and not much later did Greg, Mycroft, John and Sherlock see their supposed saviour the exterminator come running down the hall chucking his clipboard at the wall sometime in the process, (leaving an impressive dent in the wallpaper) foregoing any semblance of normal behaviour for a person that supposedly has a license to exterminate vermin must’ve been contracted before. Or why else would Mycroft, well, actually his minion bring him to do the job.

But no such thing as the exterminator (Bob, let’s call him Bob) made no pause to even explain why he was making a getaway. And Mycroft had an inkling Chuck was still living loose in 221B.

“Is there something the matter? I mean, I did ask my assistant Anthea to hire you and pay you handsomely for your services.” Mycroft had made his way over to the door threshold of the flat overlooking the steps caching Bob before he skedaddled for real. “So, pray tell, have you caught the rodent in question? Or is there something you should be telling me?”

In a voice filled with mild hysteria (what is up with this Chuck mouse thing. WOW. Watch this space for a horror coming out soon.) Bob answered Mycroft, “Take your money back. All of it. I won’t even charge you for the gas fees. Just, don’t make me go back up there to deal with that...thing. I’ll even pay you to let me go. Lord almighty! In my twenty years of exterminating, I’ve never seen a rat with bloody wings coming out of its fur!” The exterminator --our dear friend Bob, shivered and looked at Mycroft one last time. “May the lord be with you. I recommend you just move flats altogether. That mouse fella doesn’t look very happy.”

And just like that, Bobert was off and out of 221B not daring to look back. Probably never going back onto Baker Street itself for the rest of his life.

Mycroft shut the door dejectedly and looked back the the gang hanging out in the kitchen. John shrugged, so did Greg. What could ya do? However, Sherlock had a look of murder on his face. Chuck was playing a game with the wrong people, especially with the younger Holmes in questions.

Sherlock pushed himself back from his seat at the kitchen table and stood ramrod straight, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed. “That’s it. I’ve had enough of Chuck and their games. Anthea is great and all, and yeah she tried but it’s time to bring out the real big guns.”

One by one, befuddled looks turned up on the faces of the rest of the men at 221B once Sherlock had said yet another cryptic message of his. What a surprise, right?

So Sherlock approached Mycroft where he still remained by the opened door leading to the stairs and called out. **_“MRS HUDSON! GET IN HERE BEFORE I MESS UP YOUR BINS AGAIN.”_**

Fluttering footsteps rushed (for an elder woman that is) up the steps to 221B, a flustered Mrs. Hudson emerged from around the staircase clutching the left side of her chest. A bloody heart attack is what they would give poor Mrs. Hudders a heart attack with all that screaming and shouting and running about. Christ on a cracker that was a lot of commotion for it to only be three in the morning.

**  
**  


“Sherlock! What is all this commotion about! You better have a good reason because I’d already taken my herbal soothers before going to bed five hours ago. I was out like a light until you woke me up with all this raucous.” A rare Mrs Hudson with hair rollers entered through the doors of 221B both fists on her hips. “Now for Pete’s sake what’s the matter with the lot of you?” And if you listened closely, you could hear Hudders whispering “Grown men the lot and for what?”

Anthea peaked her head out --naturally-- once she heard the new voice inside the flat. Sherlock screaming wasn’t really that much of a rarity to waste time on.

“Oh! I see you’ve brought in Mrs. Hudson to help with this mess but shouldn’t you be letting the poor woman sleep?” Mrs Hudson nodded along with Anthea in mute agreement, feeling good that there was at least one other person on her side who recognized that waking up another human being by forms of screams at the middle of the night was more than a bit not good.

“That’s beside the point Anthea, mind your own business before I have Mycroft fire you.” Sherlock scowled of course at being undermined in anyway, even more so when Mycroft chimed in “Which I won’t be doing at any point little brother, so play nice. That is if you want your new flatmate out anytime soon.”

And now it was time for Mrs. Hudson to be confused --well, even more so than before--. “What do you mean new flatmate? I don’t see anyone else here besides Gregory and I haven’t seen him around for quite a while so it mustn't be him.”

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin before opening his mouth, but not before John stepped in front of Sherlock and blurted out in short what was happening just in case Sherlock decided to be extra...special and pushed Mrs. Hudson back into her flat.

“Well, the thing is. It all started out with a spider in the shower --and yes an actual spider that’s not code for anything. Get your mind out of there. And when we realized that the spider was just too much for Sherlock and I, we called Greg --no wait, Mycroft, thanks Sherl, and asked if he could take care of our eight legged frenime. When it was clear Mycroft had found his first equal adversary, that’s when we called Greg to see if he had bigger balls than his partner --yes that’s code for something but I’ll tell you later today at morning tea--.

“But getting back the subject, Greg got rid of Fredward, the spider, but then we encountered another problem, our current problem. Right after Fredward was liberated, a rogue mouse came out of thin air and practically ate our feet, maybe our souls. Not even Mycroft, Greg and Sherlock and I could get Chuck, that’s the mouse, out of our lives.”

Sherlock stepped in to talk now, fuck the fact he was probably pissing off John, maybe more to do with the fact it would probably include a nice little kinky action later. “And that’s when we called Anthea to see what she could do to help and look how that worked out. She brought in an exterminator that left not ten minutes later and here we are now, calling you because if there’s one thing you know how to handle is vermins --Mr Hudson being one.”

Mrs Hudson wanted to say a word otherwise but she couldn’t argue with Sherlock when he was basically telling the truth. “Shush you. If you want my help at this hour, tell me exactly what you want me to do and I’ll see what I can do.”

Greg sidestepped in front of both John and Sherlock and grabbed dear ole Mrs Hudson’s frail hand to sweet talk her up past the line of indecision. “Oh sweet Mrs Hudson, my dear Martha, can I call you that. Please excuse Sherlock as you know he is a very special boy, so please, if for no one else, help me out with the Chuck situation.”

“Well. Since you put it so nicely Gregory, I’ll be more than happy to help.” Mrs Hudson wandered into the kitchen bypassing Mycroft as she searched through the cupboards for god knows what. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of rats -- no Sherlock, I’m not talking about my husband, although he was a rather nasty character-- considering the first five years of my marriage in Miami we lived in the attic of some drug lords. Not knowingly that is, well at least I didn’t know. There were a bunch of rats there, all shapes and sizes, one even had two tails, terrifying business I tell you.”

Eyebrows all around raised astronomically high for the umpteenth time hearing about the badassery of Mrs Hudson and her incredible naivete towards it. “That’s wonderful Mrs Hudson, but if we wanted your life story, I’m pretty sure we would’ve asked for it, and I don’t remember doing as such. So please get on with rummaging through my experiments pretending you aren’t already thinking what you’re going to bin the next time I’m out of the flat, and please continue. Time is of the essence. I feel my feet being chewed off by the second and believe me, I will sue if anything happens to my italian shoes.”

Hudders rolled her eyes turning away from Sherlock, however, the weight of her sarcasm was so incredibly palpable, probably even Chuck was feeling the aftershocks of it.

“John, as you are the more civil of the two, would you mind telling me if there’s any peanut butter in your flat?” Mrs Hudson continued with her sassy streak, her hip cocked to one side, fists firmly placed on each sides.

“Yeah, sure, Mrs H. There’s peanut butter in the last cabinet to the right, just above the toaster. Sherlock hates the stuff but he remarkably likes the taste of it when I --nevermind. Last cupboard on the right.”

Nevermind that, never mind the pungent smell of --possibly spoiled, chemically altered peanut butter at three in the morning. Nevermind the bucket Mrs Hudson had managed to scrounge up without eyeballs or brain scraps. Chuck had other plans, because apparently mice had a serious affinity for Skippy peanut butter because in the same moment Mrs Hudson pulled out the jar from the cupboard, two high pitched squeaks from non-Sherlockian nor Mycroftonian origin rang through the general direction inside the flat. The very flat all four men were sure was shrinking with every passing second.

Mrs Hudson took opened the jar after a spot of wrestling with the lid whilst Anthea went ahead and brought over the currently formaldehyde free bucket to the landlady. Three squeaks this time coming from somewhere behind the friends and/or the back of the stove. Jolly good. They had the mousey convict moving in closer to them, which was great because they (and by they they meant Mrs H and Anthea) finally had a plan of attack. It was safe to say Chuck was surely about to see his last moments. No doubt about it….And all it would take was a bucket, a spoon...and a jar of peanut butter? Surely not the whole thing, or would it require a complete jar of that sticky goop for a stupid mouse? Semantics. Back to business.

Mrs Hudson and Anthea shared hushed whispers in rapid succession as the squeaking came closer to the kitchen area. The peanut butter jar was still opened sitting on the kitchen counter, unattended, almost inaudible pitter patter of paws resonated off of the worn down, slightly acid corroded tiling.

Greg blatantly took several wide steps back until he reached Mycroft and embraced him in a suffocating hold. Sherlock the git, still trying to hold onto his long gone bravado made a big show of pretending that he was disappointed at Greg’s cowardice. And as if he were going to talk to said detective inspector before _coincidentally_ getting sidetracked by his lovely partner who didn’t mind a tall, lanky consulting wanker hanging off of him for the rest of Mission: Capture Chuck 2.0.

The sounds of Chuck at this point were coming from all sides of the kitchen, the omniscient and all powerful Chuck, the bugger (buggerette to be more exact, Chuck was still genetically a girl as far as they were concerned. However, what Chuck chose to call himself was none of their business).

At one point of Sherlock’s brave cowering, his face had made it’s way into the crook of John’s neck practically begging the shorter blond to press whisper soft kisses to the top of his head like a needy kitten. Oh the things John did because of love, and because Sherlock had him wrapped around every single one of his fingers.

And at that same point that John peppered kisses on every one of Sherlock’s weak spots, was when Hudders settled a spoon on the edge of the kitchen counter with a big glob of peanut butter on it. Why? Who knows. But it looked like Anthea was in agreement because she later placed a bucket under said blob filled spoon.

John was itching to ask Sherlock what the ladies could’ve been up to but again, the gentle kisses and gentle caresses were not only severely time consuming, but they were capable of rendering Sherlock into a quivering mess. Even detective Lestrade (although Sherlock would be ready at any time to debate on the validity of said title) was befuddled with how Mrs H was going to absolve them of their Chuckie problem.

But all in good faith of course. All in good faith, a pinch of skepticism and a hearty serving of doubt.

Another high pitched squeak came now from somewhere near where the toaster Sherlock stuffed with lacquered beef jerky lived. Chuck was getting closer, much closer to...whatever setup was being put in place to catch this rogue, merciless criminal once and for all.

The hysteric sounds of Chuck came even closer and that was Mrs Hudson and Anthea’s cue to flee the double bluff layout before Chuck (the smart arsehole) noticed he was being set up.

With the ladies now out of the kitchen, Sherlock felt his anxiety reach an astronomical high, which then resulted nipping away at John’s neck down to his collarbone. And normally, John wouldn’t mind the slight stinging --but still breathtakingly arousing-- sensation in the privacy of their bedroom or anywhere behind closed doors...just not whilst Sherlock, him, and several others were a bit busy catching the mouse that had nothing better to do at three in the morning than to haunt the tenants of 221B.

Nevertheless, quite amusingly, the feeling of Sherlock leaving a necklace of purpling bruises and shallow bite marks around his neck --unconsciously or not-- felt oddly relaxing and grounding, not only to John, but to Sherlock as well. Distracting even. Out went the thoughts of stupid Chuck ruining their night and in came a flood of sensual shivers and the soft smell that can only be described as Sherlock. A mix of overly priced lavender body wash, warm, musky tea on a cold day, and the acid Sherlock had decided to experiment with that day. That was the essence of Sherlock, and not just in terms of smell but the personality John had fallen in love with and the one Sherlock went through all costs to keep hidden from anyone not-John. And really, that was all John needed to forget the mess before them, to take a deep breath of his lover’s intoxicating smell, and nuzzle into the into the sinewy neck of the hunched over brilliant madman, _John’s_ brilliant mad man.

The tension in Sherlock’s muscles loosened under John’s gentle touches, and at that point, Mrs Hudson and Anthea could’ve very well blown up the flat and Sherlock and John would be none the wiser. Well, maybe they would notice the flat going up in flames but they had each other and at least for Sherlock who saw everything including his body as a tedious vessel, John Watson, his heart, was enough to keep him going, with his cases, with his health, with the happiness and love Sherlock had just discovered was something he was allowed to have.

Mrs Hudson took one glance at her boys and internally cooed. The day Sherlocked heard her making any sounds, even looking at them suggestively, was the day they either banned her from the flat or stopped any physical contact between the pair to keep her from speaking to Mrs Turner. As if she would tell anyone!

….Well it was only just that once and it was more of a passing remark than anything but not for John or Sherlock who had both taken it to heart that their landlady was spreading the word on their furtive (yeah right! Who didn’t know about Sherlock and John?) relationship.

The old landlady desperately wanted to take a picture of this candid moment, lord knows it would probably be the first and last she would be allowed to see without her having the misfortune of leaving her flat when the boy’s were on their post-case adrenaline high and getting to the flat was too much of a struggle for both of them.

Sherlock was still pressed impossibly tight against John who was several inches shorter than the lanky man, holding John, holding his blogger, the man that was capable of taming a wild tornado and keep it docile, craving for anything the doctor was willing to give. John had begun to whisper sweet nothings into the Sherlock’s collarbone, tangling his calloused fingers into the mess of curls Sherlock called hair (which most likely haven’t been properly brushed in the last forty-eight hours). John’s other hand was splayed across Sherlock’s lower back bringing those delicate bony hips even closer to his compact body. The sense of shameless urgency, blinding love, mutual necessity grasped Mrs Hudson’s heart with a vice-like grip. There was once a time in her life when she thought she had found such a love for herself. That irrefutable love where one walks the earth willingly blind with only the hand of their other half to lead the way.

Shame she had been making said blind journey on her own as Mr Hudson went on bedding half of Miami during their six months of marriage. She had always wanted to think that not everything in her life was a lie, that at least one point when they were together Mr Hudson didn’t just want her as a cover as a newly settled down man who happened to be in charge of half of Miami’s narcotics business.

However, her reminiscing was cut short when another set of squeaks and mousy chatter echoed from the sink area. At last, Chuck had finally picked up the courage to present themselves, and even better, placing themselves close to the area of capture. And yes, that meant the spoon with peanut butter.

Mycroft and Greg had decided at some point to flee the kitchen space, more accurately anywhere near where the mouse might’ve passed through. Essentially, leaving Sherlock, John and the two ladies --that seemed to be in more control than all four men combined-- to finish the job.

As Chuck neared the spoon, Sherlock closed his eyes, his nose scrunched up and his eyebrows furrowing tempting John to press even softer kisses to the currently irrational genius’ forehead. The same detective that was absentmindedly mumbling something about having his toes and leg hair chewed off by Chuck and how he was almost a hundred percent sure it was a scientifically proven to be a fact.

Anthea leaned back onto the threshold of the kitchen door, Mrs H crossed her arms over her nightgown watching in rapt attention as Chuck inched ever so closely to the spoon. The mouse now only centimeters away from the goal.

Sherlock stopped breathing when Chuck started sniffing the brown glop, its little tiny nose and whiskers twitching before Chuck’s tiny ears pricked up in marked interest. Good. At least Chuckward liked the peanut butter so that was a plus.

“Is it over yet?” Mycroft harshly whispered --oh! so he hadn’t abandoned the flat yet-- and if the look Sherlock gave him was anything to go by, Mycroft would be dead ten times over, and buried under a cake factory so he would have to live his after life or whatever came next eternally tempted but incapable to do anything about it.

“We’ll take that as a no…” Greg grabbed Mycroft gently by the upper arm and dragged him back towards a dark corner of the living room where it seems they had disappeared to earlier.

However, luckily enough, Mycroft’s pigheadedness hadn’t deterred Chuck from trying to get their share of peanut butter. If anything, Chuck was even more determined to get a taste of sticky mess at the end of the spoon, the very one Chuck had tentatively placed one of their teeny tiny paws at the end then waited. Nothing happened so Chuck placed another paw onto the spoon. And once more to see what happened.That happened two more times before the weight of both the mouse and the peanut butter became too much, and both spoon and mouse toppled into the bucket underneath.

Mrs Hudson clapped with glee and Anthea nodded her head once before going into the living room with her clipboard to collect her boss and tell him that the job was done.

Meanwhile, Sherlock, well Sherlock was outraged for some reason. “That’s it? That’s how you catch a mouse?” Insert Oscar worthy huff  here. “Well anyone could’ve done that.”

“Yes, Sherlock dear, That’s how we caught mice back in the old days. And I think the word you’re looking for is _thank you_.” Mrs Hudson wrapped her robe around her waist before going to collect the bucket but then back to Sherlock, the man wouldn’t just let such a fine, fresh specimen out of his sight so quickly.

A grumbled string of sentences, a few idiots here and there, which basically translated into a thank you in Sherlockese before the detective sighed, “Well that was anticlimactic. There wasn’t even at least one fire that needed to be out out.”

John shock his head and chuckled as he peeled himself off of Sherlock and walked towards Mrs Hudson who was still holding the bucket. Anthea, and company had, at one point, creeped out of the flat not wanting to be involved with the still, very much alive Chuck.

Mrs Hudson decided to stay several steps away from the bucket as John went to crouched down beside it, his antecedent fear having dissipated at the thought that Chuck wasn't as invincible in the end, after all.

Little Chuck was squeaking madly running around the circumference of the bucket wanting nothing more than to be set free. John knew Sherlock would want to run experiments on Chuck, but John would have to make sure that the experiments would go no further than some _cognitive_ tests, and/or Sherlock training and possibly wanting to keep the mouse as an unofficial pet….Right after having what most people (except Sherlock) would call a meltdown and John giving in like the whipped sod he is.

John reached into the bucket hoping to at least pet and calm down their possibly new flatmate (god help them), Sherlock hissing in the background about the probability John had at contracting rabies and dying right there on the spot. But John had learnt a long time ago to ignore Sherlock when he was getting into one of his drama queen moods.

“Calm down Sherlock, I just want to make sure your next experiment specimen --don’t get that look we’ll talk about it later. And I’ll say this now, nothing more than _cognitive_ tests, maybe I’ll let you build mazes for it if you promise not to destroy the flat. I just wanted to make sure Chuck didn’t get hurt during the fall, you know, get any major injuries.”

John picked up the inconsolable Chuck who then started to calm down now feeling less spooked at being held by a human. John gave Chuck a cursory once over…”That’s interesting.” said John.

Sherlock jerked and scrambled closer to John, Mrs Hudson deciding now would be the perfect time to retire back to her flat. “Chuck isn’t a Chuck.” John giggled.

“Stop being so vague John! You know I hate not knowing, so spit it out. Or you can bet your ass I won’t be doing that thing you like so much with the cherry flavoured lip gloss and the lace panties.” This drama queen needed his beauty sleep because cranky didn’t cover it, and also John couldn’t risk taking the chance of being denied a sultry Sherlock in lingerie.

“For a genius you can really be an idiot sometimes. Chuck isn’t a Chuck because Chuck is a girl.” And John said that as if he were commenting on the weather whilst Sherlock felt as if his world was imploding in slow motion. “Sherlock? You okay there?”

“The gestation period is about nineteen to twenty-one days, and they give birth to a litter of three to fourteen offsprings, averaging at about six to eight. One female can have 5 to 10 litters per year --”

“Stop right there Sherlock, just because Chuck’s a girl --we should really giver her a new name now-- doesn’t mean she’s had any babies. There would have to be a male rat for that to happen.” Always the voice of reason his John was.

Sherlock collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs as John placed Chuck into a shoe box Sherlock kept for storing different types of fabric (why? John would probably never find out) punching holes into the lid. “You’re right, yeah. Of course. That was a stupid  If there was another rat we would know right?”

“Of course dear.” John said lovingly as well as placatingly gently collecting his heap of overwhelmed detective and guiding him to their room. “Now let’s go to sleep so you can nice and fresh for tomorrow to begin whatever _cognitive_ and/or _cerebral_ experiments your genius brain can come up with. Also, when did you even have the time to learn facts about the gestation period of a mouse. I highly doubt that couldve been a part of one of your cases.”

Sherlock hummed at John’s comment as he followed John’s lead back to their bedroom. Never in his tedious thirty-four years of life had he ever had a more sound night’s sleep.

**  
And if either of them heard the distant assorted squeaks coming from behind the a bookcase the next morning as Chuck still laid asleep in her container, neither was ready, emotionally or physically, to bring it up. But four jars of peanut butter did magically make their way into their cupboard...as did four buckets, a new set of spoons, and train tickets to Scotland.**


End file.
